My Family of Bréagadóirí
by thedevilsBandmate
Summary: Aednat Deasmhumhain, a seven hundred and fifty-year-old Irish vampire, was the lover of Niklaus Mikaelson for the better part of two centuries, that is, until she helped Katerina Petrova escape. Now that Klaus has gotten what he wanted anyway, she no longer has to run. Now going by the name of Ena Desmond, she attempts to plead for forgiveness, after seeking protection from Elijah.
1. Chapter 1

Aednat Deasmhumhain, a seven hundred and fifty-year-old Irish vampire, give or take a few years, was the lover of Niklaus Mikaelson for the better part of two centuries, that is, until she helped Katerina Petrova escape. Now that Klaus has gotten what he wanted anyway, hundreds of years later, Aednat no longer has to run. Now going by the name of Ena Desmond, she attempts to plead for forgiveness from the Original Hybrid, after seeking protection from Elijah of course.

* * *

1278 A.D.- Meet the Mikaelsons

Aednat sighs heavily at the long rows of tents making up the street fair, forgetting the color of her masters' quite extensive tent to match his quite extensive estate, although it matches the same colors she has grown up with all of her short, vulnerable, life. The girl-wife and her family serve a relatively long and noble lineage of Norman-Irish dukes and duchesses in South Munster, an Irish Kingdom known as Desmond. As a common serf, the girl is paid no mind as long as she heeds her orders and does not speak out of turn, nor tempt any noblemen to explore under her skirts.

Her dress is no dress, however, as it is of a simple design meant for the working class. It holds no elegance, and nor does her unruly, frizzy hair which is pleated back into a messy braid that reaches down to her lower back, between where the dimples of her curving flesh might be hiding under the once stiff and starchy frock, now worn down to limp, thin fabric.

Aednat huffs and leads her master's mule and cart with the appropriate coat of arms onwards, looking amongst the crowd for a familiar face, or maybe a banner proudly carrying her master's seal. Aednat curses her husband, Bartley, under her breath for having her mind the cart when it should have been his duty. She hopes that her master will be merciful when he learns that she, a woman, traveled to the fair alone and unaccompanied over the distance from the castle. A welcome sight of her mistress' signature deep purple frock and off-white tulle underskirts wobble to and fro a few short strides away, the noble lady's perfectly coiled hair streaming down her back in blonde tendrils. The woman is adorned with flowers, none that Aednat can recognize but all that she deemed breathtaking nonetheless, not to mention quite odd for a lady so prone to attacks of sneezing whenever near a flowering plant.

"My lady! Lady Murrell, my mistress!" Aednat calls forth in ancient Gaelic, more blunt and abrupt than she ever would have been had the seas of noble and common people alike not been so loud and bustling. The Lady Murrell does not turn her head, nor show any semblance of recognition for her name. Aednat hurries her pace, fearing that her mistress has not heard her and will continue on without guiding the serf to her husband's tent. Currently directly behind the lady, Aednat fails to notice that her mistress is taller than usual, her hair quite paler than usual, her stature less wisp-like than usual. Aednat falls to her knees in a deep bow behind the woman who dresses in her mistress' clothes, wearing the pendant with her master's coat of arms on it. "My mistress Lady Murrell, forgive me if I intrude upon your respite, but I have delivered your kind husband's, my master's mule and cart."

The woman, Rebekah Mikaelson turns swiftly, obviously wary and anxious that one may have found her to be the impostor that she is, only to find the strawberry-brown haired, small girl who would look dainty if she were not so worn, threadbare, and tired kneeling at her feet.

Aednat rises from her bow hesitantly when she receives no response, visibly jerking back in surprise when she takes in the Viking beauty that most definitely is not the thin-faced, thin-lipped, small-boned Lady Murrell. Aednat's cheeks redden in her confusion and the match of her easily lit anger.

"You are not my lady! You dare where her skirts and my master's arms?" Aednat shouts unwittingly, never one to think before she speaks when she is angered.

"You dare question me with that tone, you stupid little nit?" Rebekah glowers, towering over the seventeen-year-old, glistening fangs beginning to protrude from her pearly white teeth, her hunting techniques not yet perfected as she begins to attack in the center of an audience. Rebekah's hands clasp onto Aednat's shoulders in a pain-evoking grip, causing the girl to yelp out in fear and of course, pain itself.

"Ah, ah, ah, dear sister. Have we not run enough?" Elijah calmly interjects from behind Aednat, startling her even more. "Be more discrete. If you have to dispose of her, I recommend avoiding doing so in the middle of the fair."

* * *

October 2013- Her Unwelcome Return

"Can you spell that for me?" An overly enthusiastic barista asks the curly-haired girl in front of her, holding a marker and Styrofoam coffee cup in order to mark what goes in it and who it goes to, a smile etched into her face like stone.

"E, N, A. Ena Desmond." The customer spells out in a bored monotone, a slight accent tinging her voice, even after all of this time, even after hiding it during centuries of discrimination and ignorance.

"And that's Eeen-uhh, spelt E, N, A: an Irish breakfast with two lumps of sugar and no milk, right?"

"Indeed so."

"Just dandy! By the way, I adore your hair, I can't decide if it's red or brown though."

"Thank you, you're very sweet. I've developed the habit of calling it strawberry brown."

"That sounds wonderful. Your tea will be brought to your chair in no time at all! I hope you enjoy your stay at New Orleans, make sure to give us five stars on yelp and remember, we have brochures with ghost and witch tour coupons near the entrance!"

* * *

Hello my lovelies!

I do hope you have enjoyed the above tidbit of what is to come. This is a love story, and as such I need an intended love interest (or two?!). Yes, Aednat, now Ena, has a past with Claus, but that doesn't mean she is fated to be with him.

Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Rebekah's grip tightens, sure to leave deep purple finger marks under the faded fabric of Aednat's peasant clothes. The girl whimpers, her face growing ruddier the more frightened she becomes. Aednat wishes she could shut her eyes tight and she would awake in her lumpy hay bed next to the insufferably snoring Bartley with small Cabhan cuddling in between them, still suckling his little thumb, or maybe with her daughter Betha murmuring gently as she slumbers in her bassinet, no hair yet growing on the lass' wee head. But that is not so as Aednat cannot even make her eyes move at all, let alone close them to whatever horrors may come next.

Aednat cries out as she is pulled back into the chest of the man behind her, one of his hands securing itself around her throat, gripping with just enough force to stop blood flow to her face, but not enough to cut off her breathing entirely.

"She was my snack!" Rebekah complains immediately with her nostrils flaring, veins appearing underneath her eyes in such an unholy manner Aednat begins to fear for her life and the lives of all those around her. She begins to think of all the things she has left unfinished, how her children are still wee little toddlers, how they hadn't even yet learned their own names, how nice her Bartley's muscles looked before he started drinking ale with his mates, and the laundry she left hanging from clothespins in the yard. Aednat began murmuring the Hail Mary under her breath, clasping the wooden cross necklace she wore at all times feverishly between cold sweaty hands, and praying for her end to be merciful.

"On second thought," Elijah speaks, pausing to run his hand downwards away from Aednat's neck to the large suit of arms on her chest claiming Aednat as property of the Murrell estate, tugging on Aednat's dirt-covered apron. Aednat wonders why they bother to speak in Gaelic in front of her, hearing the slight Norse accent behind their thick English ones, why they speak so she can hear their terrible plans. "The girl wears the same crest you wear, sister. She's of the family we have begun to pose as. She could possess useful information."

"I could torture it out of her if you like." A brunette man comments as he walks up to the now growing throng of people, blocking the view from the rest of the fair-goers as he wipes blood from the corner of his mouth onto the cuff of his sleeve, a familiarly stitched sleeve, one that she stitched herself when her husband tore it on a smith's blade, her Bartley's sleeve. A ring of blood stains the collar of the shirt as well, enough blood to assume death by a slit throat. Blood on the very shirt Bartley had buttoned up this very morning and complained about the terrible scratchiness that makes up Aednat's sewing abilities when it comes to repairing clothing. A gasp tears its way through Aednat's stomach and through her chest, erupting from her mouth as a forlorn sob as her knees give out from under her.

Elijah is quick to catch Aednat before she falls to the ground rather ungracefully, frowning in annoyance as the girl's head lolls to the side in her unconsciousness, her mouth hanging slightly ajar from the near-scream she just emitted. Elijah and Rebekah send a quick glare to their brother Kol who simply shrugs with a devious little smirk upon his rather bloodstained mouth.

* * *

Ena sips her tea as she scrolls through a news article of a gory murder on her cellphone with mild interest, not looking up from the short read as a man sits across from her at the small rickety wooden table, fitting the aesthetic of the creeky and old tea shop. The room is decorated with dried flowers and various other herbs, mason jars, old stained wood with carved Celtic designs, deep green tapestries, and the aroma of freshly brewed loose leaf tea. The man makes himself comfortable and leans back in the squeaky chair, his arms folded brutishly across his chest in a guarded stance, indicating his wariness.

"Mr. Gerard." Ena acknowledges, setting down her phone delicately, looking up into the dark eyes of Marcellus Gerard, protégé of her Niklaus, of the hybrid Ena used to call her own. She takes a small sip of her tea before folding her hands in her lap, her lips pressing together as she rehearses what she is to say to the King of New Orleans, her mouth not quite dry with this stale piece of business, but also not quite comfortable either.

"Ena," He speaks slowly, "Or Aednat. Whichever you go by. I'd say I've heard a lot about you, but no one seems to know who you are. Klaus gets infuriated by the sound of your name, but other than that you've been wiped from history. You don't exist. All that I know is that you, Ena, are old. Older than old, and I know old, I'm old. You're only a few centuries short of the Mikaelsons themselves. Now tell me, miss nobody, what does a dusty old vampire who doesn't ring a bell, other than the fact that she pissed off an original, and the only hybrid one at that, want with me?"

Ena's mouth twitches upwards into an amused smirk, a quiet and soft chuckle sounding from behind her teeth. She inhales deeply through her nose and slowly pulls out a pressed manila envelope with a stamped wax seal from the inside pocket of her grey wool trench coat. Her fingertips dance across it with hidden nervousness as her smirk grows into a somber smile, grey stormy eyes stilling with a glossed-over look of nostalgia and loneliness.

"I, my dear Marcellus, made a grave mistake when I was your age, give or take a few decades." Ena begins, her voice growing more and more tired with each syllable. She continues to muse on: "I do not care for the details, but do know that they are gory indeed. I do not regret my decision, but I regret the consequences it had and what those consequences took from me." She says, pausing with a bit of pained hesitance, "I am here to atone for my sins, Mr. Gerard, and as such, I need a witness and a messenger."

"That's all fine and dandy, but why am I here? You could get anyone else to tell your sad, sad tale of woe to. Hell, compel a human to listen to you ramble for all I care." Marcel grumbles, unfolding his arms in order to stand up, eying the envelope with suspicion.

"You," Ena continues, her eyes narrowing dangerously as she warns him to stay put with a simple glare, "Are for all intents and purposes, Niklaus' son. His family. I need someone to hold onto this, should things go terribly awry in the coming days. I have decided to entrust this with you." She pauses, looking at the crisp envelope in her hands, daring Marcel to leave with her eyes, but knowing that he won't as he settles into his seat once more.

"Well, what is it then?" He asks impatiently, but curious nonetheless. His interest is piqued just enough that he won't strut out of the door and forget all about Ena, as one could easily do.

"This envelope holds six separate letters. One to yourself, dear Marcellus, to Camille O'Connell, to Kieran O'Connell, the beautiful Rebekah Mikaelsson, the gentlemanly Elijah Mikaelson, and then a collective letter to you five that is my last will and testament. Deliver these if I do not contact you again by the time three midnights pass. It is imperative that you do so." Ena demands, twisting her voice just so that it seems Marcel is given no choice, none whatsoever. She smiles devilishly at him. "Any questions?"

* * *

Hello my lovelies!

This is the second installment of My Family of Bréagadóirí, and I do hope you like it. It's still a bit short for a chapter as my taste goes, but I wanted to get another one up as soon as possible. I would like to know what you think and who you think Ena should end up with, if anyone at all!

Leave a review, they are much appreciated!


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